


Once More, with Feeling

by michaelandthegodsquad



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14812836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelandthegodsquad/pseuds/michaelandthegodsquad
Summary: “I have something for you,” Lafayette says, quietly, and begins to dig through the pocket of his waistcoat. “A gift.”For a moment Washington has to tamp down the edge of excitement that once accompanied the sight of Lafayette fumbling with his clothes, and he moves as close as he dares, the toes of his boots just grazing against Lafayette’s. “Oh?”OR:Lafayette visits Mount Vernon and brings the key to the Bastille with him.





	Once More, with Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> BOY HOWDY I TOOK SOME LIBERTIES WITH THIS
> 
> So firstly, this happened because the Mount Vernon twitter posted about how on this day in 1790, Thomas Paine forwarded the key to the Bastille to Washington after it was sent from France by Lafayette. Here are some tweaks I’ve made:
> 
> -Historically, the key was presented to Washington by John Rutledge, Jr. In this story, Lafayette has gone all the way to Mount Vernon himself to deliver it to Washington in person.  
> -This would’ve been during Washington’s first term as president, during which he’d be in New York. For the sake of the narrative, he’s on a short break at Mount Vernon.  
> -There’s a mention of the portraits of Washington and Lafayette that Washington hung together at Mount Vernon. I’m not actually sure whether those paintings would have existed yet in 1790, but we’re going to pretend they did because I like to inflict pain and those portraits are an easy way to do it.  
> -Historically Washington and Lafayette saw each other for the last time in 1784 during Lafayette’s 10-day visit to Mount Vernon. That visit is still canonical in the context of this story.
> 
> Anyway have some pain

_ Late summer, 1790 _

His hair is the same.

There’s more of it, as if that were possible, no longer a voluminous poof of curls tied to the base of his skull. It has some length now, actually beholden to gravity where its mass has somewhat loosened those corkscrew curls. He’s tried to clean up, put on a nicer shirt and a clean cravat. But Washington made a habit long ago of watching him closely, and even now, six years after he last set foot on the grounds of Mount Vernon, Washington can make out the faded color of his waistcoat, the spots on his breeches that have been sewn over to close the tears. He stands tall but there is a tired set to his shoulders, a heaviness to his face that belies the wide-eyed enthusiasm Washington once knew. He’s always cleaned up well, but still–

“You look as though you’ve been through a war,” Washington says to Lafayette, standing a respectable distance away in the foyer as slaves bustle about the house and the surrounding estate. Autumn is nearly upon them, and there are so many preparations to be made–Washington is only at Mount Vernon for a few weeks, and it doesn’t look like he’ll know a moment of rest before he returns to New York next month. 

Lafayette laughs to himself, and there’s something reserved about it, less boisterous than the loud, unashamed cackle Washington was used to hearing from him. He misses it. “Indeed I have,” he says in that heavily accented English, the one that tells Washington he’s still fresh off the boat. Had Mount Vernon been his first stop upon reaching the other side of the Atlantic? “I suppose I should have dressed accordingly before meeting you,  _ monsieur  _ _ Président,”  _ he continues, and Washington has to bite back a pained grimace. 

“Don’t,” Washington says quietly, clearing his throat quickly as it cracks. “Don’t call me that.” He doesn’t have to look up to know that Lafayette is watching him, studying him with the same intensity that Washington had regarded him with just moments ago. It’s too honest of a thing to say out here in the open, and Washington gestures awkwardly towards the study. “Come, we have so much to discuss.” 

Mopsy lifts his tired head and watches them enter from his favorite spot next to the desk, laid out over a square of sunlight streaming onto the floor from the window. Washington shoos him away, and Lafayette offers him an open hand to sniff as he makes his way to the door. Washington’s hand shakes as he locks the door behind the dog, and he takes a moment to steady himself before turning back to Lafayette, who’s leaning back against the desk in that same loose and carefree way he carried with in his youth. The sun that warmed Mopsy just a moment ago illuminates Lafayette’s hair and highlights  a few strands of gray mixed in with all that dark brown, and Washington absolutely aches.

“I have something for you,” Lafayette says, quietly, and begins to dig through the pocket of his waistcoat. “A gift.”

For a moment Washington has to tamp down the edge of excitement that once accompanied the sight of Lafayette fumbling with his clothes, and he moves as close as he dares, the toes of his boots just grazing against Lafayette’s. “Oh?”

Lafayette nods and pulls out a worn kerchief, begins peeling back the folds as Washington eyes its worn creases. The key that rests in Lafayette’s palm when he’s done is fairly unassuming, midnight-colored and smooth, and for a moment Washington doesn’t connect the dots. “Is this…” he trails off, unsure that his voice could carry the words if he tried. 

Lafayette nods, reaches for Washington’s hand. Washington hopes Lafayette doesn’t hear his sharp intake of breath as skin meets skin, hopes the air around them is too still to carry the sound. 

“ _ Tu sais que nous avons pris le Bastille, _ ” Lafayette says, pressing the heavy key into Washington’s palm. He takes Washington’s hand in both of his, curls his fingers around the shaft of the key, and already Washington can feel the weight of history’s eyes on the back of his neck.

And how could Washington  _ not  _ know about the Bastille? Jefferson could hardly be contained once the news reached their shores, and Washington has barely slept since, warring between his duty to his country– _ too fragile to start another fight _ –and his instinct to cross the Atlantic himself to ensure Lafayette’s safety. 

“I can’t take this,” Washington says on an outgoing breath, already passing the key back to Lafayette. “Gilbert, it’s too much, you can’t–”

Before he can even finish his thought, Lafayette is reaching for him, gripping each side of Washington’s waistcoat tight in his fists and pulling until they’re pressed against each other. The tension Washington has been carrying shatters the moment they make contact, his hands moving to grip Lafayette’s waist as the key drops with a metallic thump onto the desk. The air seems to have been pulled from the room, and Lafayette gasps next to Washington’s ear as if he can feel it too. 

“I have crossed an ocean to see you,” Lafayette rumbles quietly into Washington’s ear, and since when did his voice rumble? “I can think of no one better to keep it,  _ mon  _ _ général _ .”

Washington sobs out a wet-sounding laugh, his fingers going numb with the strength of his grip on Lafayette’s coat. “My boy,” he says, punctuating with soft kisses to Lafayette’s shoulder, his neck, the shell of his ear, anywhere his mouth can reach, frantic and sloppy. “My boy, how I’ve missed you.” 

“ _ Moi aussi, mon amour, _ ” Lafayette whispers against his neck, holding on impossibly tighter to Washington’s waistcoat. They keep their hands on each other even as they pull apart, touching and patting occasionally as if to assure themselves that this is not, in fact, a dream. The years they’ve spent apart show in Lafayette’s face, and Washington wills away the burning in his own throat and eyes as he leans in. Lafayette’s mouth is just as soft as he remembers, if not as eager with inexperience as it once was. Washington sighs anyway, resting their foreheads together.

“Gilbert,” he whispers, his hand sliding up to touch that once-familiar mass of curls, and Lafayette hums in response. Outside the sun shifts westward across the sky, creeping steadily toward the horizon, and neither Washington nor Lafayette pay it any mind. “Gilbert, how can I go on?” 

Lafayette chuckles under his breath and brushes his nose against Washington’s. “You are a sentimental old fool,” he says, and Washington has to laugh and focus on Lafayette’s hair between his fingers to hold back the tide of nostalgia that threatens to break him. “And we each have our duties,” Lafayette finishes, and goes quiet.

Duty. 

As if on cue, Washington can hear Martha’s voice through the window, carrying orders out over the fields. 250 miles north in New York is a cabinet warring with itself that needs his guidance. Across the Atlantic, an 11-year-old boy bearing Washington’s name awaits his father’s return, and an army awaits its lieutenant-general. Downstairs, their portraits hang together, always looking to each other but forever separated.

This will be the last time they see each other. But for now, a breeze rolls over the fields and through the open window, and they are here: Washington, Lafayette, and a key that signals both a beginning and an end.


End file.
